


The Nights Grow Long

by LiraelClayr007



Series: Time is But a Paper Moon [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1970s, Angst, Introspection, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, sometime after the holy water incident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 10:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19227169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: Aziraphale has walked completely around the block--walking in circles even as his thoughts wind in circles--and is standing in front of his shop again. He doesn’t feel rested or refreshed, just discombobulated. And a little bit sad.Time for a spot of cocoa, then. And somewhere in the bookshop there must besomethingthat can distract him for a few hours.





	The Nights Grow Long

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion to "Just Close Your Pretty Eyes"..but works fine on its own.

There’s something so peaceful about nighttime. Even in the city things rest; they may not actually sleep, but they _settle._ And if you’re still enough and quiet enough you can sometimes hear the almost miraculous hush that falls from time to time.

There is, however, no hush as Aziraphale stands on the walk outside his bookshop; in fact, when he steps out the door into the night air a car blows by, coughing exhaust and blaring overly loud music. But the moon hangs above, low and large, shining so bright and full he can’t see a single star, and there’s a coolness in the breeze that wakes him from the reading haze he’s been in for the past—he doesn’t know how long.

“Goodness!” he says aloud, after a glance at his watch. He’s been reading for eighteen hours. No wonder he’s feeling a bit stiff. He presses his knuckles into his lower back, stretching out his spine; there are a few pops, then he sighs contentedly. 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, tasting the late night air—flowers growing in a window box nearby, chips frying at the pub down the block, a couple holding hands and broadcasting their pheromones, a sharp tang of exhaust. He loves this place, this world. Every bit of it. Even the exhaust reminds him of human ingenuity, the brilliance of human minds. He knows part of it is his nature—angels were created to be beings of love and light[1]—but he believes his love for this place is more than just a product of his creation. There is so much wonder in the world, so much to admire. Truly, how could he not love a place with Bordeaux and Belgian chocolate? Creme brulee and crepes?

_And mustn't forget Crowley._

Aziraphale wrings his hands, agitated, and then takes off at a brisk walk down the street. But he can’t walk away from the thoughts in his head, no matter how much he tries.

It’s true, he knows. His view of the world would not be the same without Crowley.

_So why did I give him holy water?_

He nearly stumbles as this thought--this thought that’s been following him[2] ever since he handed Crowley that tartan thermos--intrudes. Why did he do it? Why did he give his best friend a way to erase himself from existence?

And here’s where he chases himself in circles. _I did it because he’s my best friend, and he asked. I did it because I couldn’t bear the thought of him risking his life to get it himself. But by giving it to him I gave him a suicide pill, and if he uses it, my best friend will be gone. But he’s my best friend, and he asked..._

Aziraphale has walked completely around the block--walking in circles even as his thoughts wind in circles--and is standing in front of his shop again. He doesn’t feel rested or refreshed, just discombobulated. And a little bit sad.

Time for a spot of cocoa, then. And somewhere in the bookshop there must be _something_ that can distract him for a few hours.

. + . + .

He knows Crowley has been following him.

No, not quite following him. But lurking on the edges of “random places” he expects he might see Aziraphale. Mostly that cafe up the road, but a few other places too; Crowley knows all his favorite restaurants. He thinks he’s so clever, miracling himself into the shadows. It works on humans, certainly, but how can he possibly think it will work on Aziraphale? They’ve been orbiting each other for millennia. Doesn’t he realize his power shines like a beacon in Aziraphale’s vision?

But Aziraphale is careful to let his eyes slip past Crowley when he’s trying to hide. Even if something inside says it’s terribly unfair that Crowley can watch him, can drink his fill, when he can only catch glimpses of Crowley.

_Ah, but **why** do you want to look more closely?_

Pointedly ignoring his own questioning voice in his head, Aziraphale flips the sign on the door of his shop from _Closed_ to _Open._ Maybe there will be customers to keep away from his books, that would be a nice distraction.

__But he’s restless, and he can’t wait for the chance that someone will distract him. Besides, he can feel Crowley about, knows he’s at the cafe again. _I’ll just step outside,_ he thinks. _Just a little peek._ _ _

__

__

__Angels don’t lie [3], but Aziraphale has gone great distances to avoid facing the truth.[4] But the truth at the heart of this particular turmoil refuses to remain tucked away: that somehow, in the midst of falling in love with all of creation, he also fell to temptation. He fell in love with a demon._ _

__Not that he could ever say those words out loud._ _

__Not that he could ever, ever voice these thoughts to Crowley._ _

__Could he?_ _

__

__

__1 Even if most of them have put aside love to become an odd combination of arrogance, blind follower, and mid-level bureaucrat.[return to text]_ _

__2 Crowley would say the thought has been _haunting_ him. But the only thing haunting Aziraphale is a certain red-haired, yellow-eyed demon.[return to text]_ _

__3 Except for maybe Gabriel.[return to text]_ _

__4 After giving Crowley the holy water Aziraphale didn’t return directly to Soho. He spent a week on the southernmost point of South America, communing with penguins.[5]__

______5 But there was one penguin that looked different from all the others, with an all black belly and odd markings around its eyes. It reminded him of Crowley.[return to text]_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Like the first piece in this series, the title comes from Queen's "Teo Torriatte (Let Us Cling Together)" Actually, that's where the title of the series comes from, too. The song gives me feelings.
> 
> There _may_ be one more in this series....
> 
>  
> 
> ...and, as always, please let me know if a footnote isn't behaving properly. I'm new at this whole html business. I'm trying! (and learning..)


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